“You asked me.”
“Ah? So I did. Well, I’m from Natchez, on the Mississippi.” “Gambling town,” Shanaghy commented. “At least Natchez-Under-the-Hill is. They tell me there are a lot of shysters and con men around there … and more crooked gamblers than anywhere.”
George’s eyes took on a hard, ugly look. “It seems to me you know a good deal about Natchez. You’ve been there?”
“Heard about it.”
“You hear too much.”
Shanaghy suddenly felt good. He did not know why he felt so good, but he did. Maybe it was the prospect of a fight, or maybe it was because he simply did not like George.
He looked at George, and he smiled.
Angered, George turned sharply away, yet he had not taken two steps before Shanaghy spoke.
Why he said what he did he would never know. It would have been wiser to let well enough alone, yet the words came out uncalled for. “Really doesn’t make much difference whether Rig comes or not,” he said.
“Everything’s ready.”
SIX
George stopped so abruptly it was a wonder he didn’t fall on his face. He turned slowly and for a moment they stared at each other. George, Shanaghy reflected, did not like him. He didn’t like him at all. Yet George’s tone was even. “Who was that you mentioned? Rig, did you say?” “Rig Barrett,” Shanaghy said, “a careful man. Leaves nothing to chance.” He didn’t know what he was talking about, but he didn’t like George any better than the gambler, or whatever he was, liked him, and he spoke merely to irritate him. Yet there was more, for the townspeople were worried about Vince Patterson and George, he knew, was somehow connected with all that might happen. Most of the people he had known made crime a profession, and there were many such around the Bowery, the Five Points and lower Broadway. Many believed all honest men to be stupid, and usually were overly optimistic about their own plans, believing they couldn’t fail. Nor did they ever seem to realize they were risking their lives or, at the very least, several years of their lives against sums of money that could in no way pay for the time they were losing or the pleasures they would be missing.
The man called George was such a one, sure that he was much smarter than those with whom he dealt. And even when he was being used, he would be certain he was using them. But who was the girl? What was her part in all this? “Rig Barrett? I don’t believe I know him.” George’s left hand unbuttoned his coat. “Is he from around here?”
“Figured you knew him,” Shanaghy replied blandly. “Everybody’s talking about him. Folks seem to be expecting trouble when the cattle come up the trail, and they’re figuring on Rig to handle it. If he gets here, that is. Personally, I think he’s just keeping out of sight until the right moment, as he’s not the kind of man to let people down.”
George shrugged and turned away. “Sometimes a man can’t help it,” he suggested. Shanaghy picked up his hammer again and went to the forge. He looked at the iron heating there. He put down the hammer, took the tongs and lifted the iron from the fire.
“A man like that,” he said, “if he couldn’t make it, would surely send somebody in his place.”
George walked away, ignoring him, and Shanaghy chuckled, continuing with his work. He was punching holes in a hinge when a man came from across the street and stopped in the door.
“Where’s Carpenter?”
“Carpenter?”
“The smith.”
“Oh? I didn’t know his name. Just called him Smith.” The man nodded. “Many do. Where is he?” He stepped forward, holding out his hand. “I’m Holstrum.”
Shanaghy held up his. It was black with soot. “Sorry. I’m Tom Shanaghy. I’ve just been lending a hand here for a few hours.” “Glad to have you. We need good men.”
“Drako still the marshal?”
“He is.”
“Best fire him then, if Vince Patterson is hunting him. You’d best find a man the town will stand behind.”
“Rig Barrett will fire him. Then there won’t be any gunplay. We don’t need any shooting.”
“And if Rig doesn’t get here?”
Holstrum hesitated, not enjoying the thought. Then he looked across the street, his face blank. “I will do it,” he said. “It must be done before Vince Patterson arrives. Maybe if Drako had been fired, that will be an end to it, and if there is trouble let Drako handle it. He’s been hunting trouble ever since the shooting.”
“Suppose,” Shanaghy wondered, “if Rig sent somebody in his place?” “It wouldn’t work. There is no other who would do as well. Rig is known. Perhaps Hickok … I do not know.”
Shanaghy walked back to the bellows and worked at it, heating up the fire. “You can’t know what will happen, Mr. Holstrum. Nor if Barrett will come. You had best be rid of Drako and have another marshal.” Holstrum shook his head. “That’s the trouble. There are brave men here, but none of us are experienced at the handling of such trouble. All of us will fight, but it is not a fight we want. If there is shooting, there will be killing, and the more shooting the more killing. It is a job for Rig Barrett.” He paused. “There must be no trouble, for there are other herds coming, and there will be much business here and our town is young. We must have that business.”
Holstrum walked back to the forge and watched the glowing embers, and the irons heating. “The cattle-buyers will come on the noon train, and they will be buying the herds that come over the trail. In the next few weeks there will be two or three hundred thousand dollars paid for cattle, and the cattlemen will pay off their hands. And many of them will buy clothing, food, supplies, liquor, whatever they need in our stores. Such money will put the town on a solid footing. We will be able to build our church and our school.” Shanaghy took the iron in the tongs and walked back to the anvil. He took up his hammer. He struck a blow, then another. He stopped. “Two or three hundred thousand dollars? Where would a town this size get that much money?” “Oh, we don’t have that much! Not by far. But we have sent for it and it will be here. We must pay off the drovers, you know, and the buyers will want checks cashed, and-“ “Two or three hundred thousand? It is coming by train?” “How else? It will be here, and Rig Barrett is coming with it. I tell you, there must be no trouble.”
Holstrum walked away and Shanaghy went on about his business. There was no bank in the town, although there was a building on which some ambitious person had painted “bank” a sign, no doubt with the best of intentions. Banking, such as there was, was handled by Holstrum himself or by Greenwood. No doubt the money for cashing checks written by the cattle-buyers would come from the safe of one or the other.
Carpenter did not return, so Shanaghy continued to work. One of the things he had always enjoyed about blacksmithing was the time to think. Once a man knew what he was doing, he could work swiftly, smoothly, and there was time to ponder.
The smith was a good man with tools-not so good as either McCarthy or his father, but good enough. He laid out his work well, and Shanaghy fitted two more rims to wheels and added to the supply of hinges. In the corner of the room, fastened to a timber brace, he found a soot-stained sheet of paper listing work to be done. He studied it, then went ahead with what was needed, but his thoughts kept reverting to the girl in the restaurant and to George. What did they want? What were they after? Surely, the two could not be … no … whatever she was, she was not that type. Larceny maybe, prostitution, no.
The more he considered the situation, the surer he was that somehow or other George had contrived that Rig Barrett not be present when Patterson arrived with his cattle.
Was Barrett dead? Even the shrewdest of gunfighters can be shot from ambush … especially if it were done at some unexpected time or place. He thought again of the letters, the map in his pack. They would surely tell him something of where Barrett had been and what he had been doing.
Why a map?
Shanaghy had no answer to that. Suddenly he was restless. He must look at those letters.
Why had he not read them before? He hesitated over the answer to that, and then admitted that he felt a curious reticence about invading the privacy of another person.